Thoughts Derail
by incense and peppermints
Summary: A collection of pieces from Darry's POV shortly after the deaths of his parents. *Now a Three-Shot.*
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns, I borrow.

* * *

Hands tremble.

Count the steps.

Drop the keys twice.

Stop. Pause. Take in my surroundings. Cool December air. Setting sun's blinding light. Cigar smoke trailing from the neighbor's porch.

All of this. All at once.

This is the moment; whether I want it to be or not, this is what I'll remember years from now.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Open the door, get in, sit for a moment. Put the key in ignition. Grip the steering wheel so tight my cracked knuckles bleed.

What to do, what to _do_. Have I forgotten how to drive?

Every inch of the truck is foreign.

It's been mine for a long time—_my_ keychain on the keys, _my_ dirt on the floor, _my_ truck, but today it isn't mine. Today it's Dad's and sitting in the driver's seat is wrong.

I shouldn't be here. I should be in the passenger seat, seven years old, awaiting my first hunting trip. Or fifteen, standing next to the hood, watching Dad fix up the engine before he teaches me how to drive.

What I wouldn't give to relive one memory instead of reality now...

Nineteen and one month shy of kissing my teenage years goodbye, I wonder how I got from point A to B—how I went from Darrel Shayne Curtis Jr. to the only Darrel Shayne Curtis.

An hour ago I ate leftover spaghetti from the fridge, the last meal Mom would ever make me.

Fifty minutes ago Officer Peterson showed up. I stared at his name badge as he spoke and the words still ring crystal clear. Didn't make it. Passed on. Call it what you will, Officer Peterson, my folks are still dead.

A half hour ago he made me identify the bodies.

Twenty minutes ago he drove me back home.

Ten minutes ago I threw up not once but multiple times.

Five minutes ago I told myself to man up and be an adult about it regardless of how upset I am.

And now here I sit, unable to process a single fucking thing. The images flash through my head: Dad's bone jutting out of his arm, Mom's snapped neck. Like a bad dream. Like a horror film. Blood everywhere. Their station wagon totaled beyond recognition.

Head on collision; that's why they called it.

_Head on collision._

I try not the think about it, I try not to think period, but still … thoughts derail. Stuck in some state between shock and denial, I can't pull myself together.

This feeling reminds me of the time my football team almost took state; the anticipation and disappointment wrapped up in that split second has returned. It's the same on edge, not knowing what's going to happen next feeling; only this time it's worse. It multiples and never ends.

All I need is a thought free second to catch my breath, but panic invades any void. Officer Peterson's words loop over and over again: I'm sorry for your loss. I'm _sorry_ for your _loss_. Is that what they say to every next of kin? Such cold, impersonal words...

I think about it. I think about a lot of things. I think about that jackass going home to hug his wife and kids, saying his I love you's and thanking God he's so blessed. Thanking God he isn't that sorry kid… That sorry kid is me.

What a jerk, what an asshole, but it makes no difference hating him.

The man didn't cause the accident; some old lady did, and I can be pissed at her for the rest of eternity, but there'll never been any retribution.

She's dead too, and he's just the messenger.

You can't hate the messenger.

Soon I'll be the messenger myself when I pick Soda up from work and Pony, track.

Somehow, some way, I have to tell them, but first I have to drive.

I have to drive Dad's truck.

I've never been so afraid.

* * *

Thanks for reading this depressing little story...

I have some ideas, so this might evolve into a two or three shot later, but for now I'll call it a oneshot.

If you're so inclined, reviews would be uh-maz-ing. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.

* * *

When I arrive at the track field, the coach and other kids are gone, and Pony's alone on the bleachers.

I approach him slowly.

He looks up and glares. "You're late."

I scratch the back of my neck and sigh. "I know… C'mon."

He gets up and follows me, but I can tell he doesn't want to; he's annoyed, and I don't blame him.

We get in the truck and I waste no time driving to the DX.

Keep driving. Keep breathing. Can't stop now… Ignore his attitude… but I can't.

Whenever I glance at him, he traces his fingers down the car's interior or stares out the window. He refuses to look at me, and I remember my promise.

_Shit._

"I'm sorry, kid." I park the truck a block from the DX and turn to him. "Work got crazy, and I … I forgot. I thought it just was an off season practice?"

His silence tells me I'm wrong, and to make matters worse I forgot well before I heard the news. Even if nothing had happened, I'd have still let him down by not showing.

"Pony…"

"It's fine." He fiddles with his t-shirt hem. "You ain't the only one who forgot…"

I ball my fists and try not to explode.

Does he think everything's about him? Our folks probably died on the way to go see him, and he thinks they ignored him.

"I'm sure they had their reasons," I hiss and kick myself for saying it. They're dead, and there's no reason to that. It just makes my words colder and more impersonal, but his ignorance is useful.

It buys me times and keeps me from dwelling on the real reason I'm upset.

"Why'd you stop drivin'?" he asks.

"We need to pick up Soda."

"Why? He doesn't get off work 'til late…"

I swallow and try to think of an acceptable excuse.

I can't. "I'll tell you later."

"Tell me now," he insists.

I bang my fist against the dashboard. "Goddamn it, Pony!"

He gives me a nervous nod and goes back to looking out the window.

I curse under my breath and get out of the truck before I say anything worse.

"Stay here," I yell at him and slam the door.

I take a few steps and stop, realizing I scared him.

God, this is an awful start; I have to tell him the worst news he'll ever hear, and this is how I deal with it? What a fantastic brother I am...

I shake my head and keep walking.

Can't lose focus now...

xxxx

I walk in and wait for Soda to finish helping a customer. It takes no more than a second, but feels like an eternity.

"Hey, Darry," he says when he notices me. "What're you doin' h—"

"C'mon, we gotta go," I cut him off.

"What?"

I motion for him to follow me. "C'mon."

He wrinkles his forehead and looks at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have.

"Just trust me," I add, and I don't have to say another word.

He follows me, despite his coworker's objections.

xxxx

The ride home is silent.

Keep a straight face.

Don't break down now…

I focus on other things. My breathing, the permanent smell of sweat and dirt in the seats, the engine's loud hum…

"What's goin' on, Darry?" Soda breaks my focus.

"Yeah, you're actin' strange," Pony adds.

I glare at them and say nothing.

If I try to explain now, I'll crash the truck.

They whisper things between themselves.

I do my best to ignore it.

xxxx

Hands shoved in my pockets, I stare at their feet.

I got them home, and now my mind blanks.

"Darry?" Soda's voice catches me off-guard, but I refuse to look up. I don't need to see his face to know how worried he is; I can hear the apprehension and know my hesitation is only making this worse.

Just tell them.

Suck it up. Be a man.

"Mom and Dad got in a bad accident," I say, my voice as tight as Officer Peterson's was when he told me.

"Are they okay?" Pony asks.

I swallow and shake my head.

Soda springs up instantly. "We gotta go see them."

"Soda, sit down," I yell.

He ignores me and starts walking toward the door. "I ain't sittin' around if Mom and Dad are hurt!"

"Soda."

He grumbles and runs a hand through his hair. "You should've taken us there right away, Darry…"

"Soda!"

"I dunno about you, but I'm gonna go to see them…"

He stops when he hears Pony cry.

Pony knows. I can tell by the way he's crying, he knows.

"Don't cry, Ponyboy." Soda sits down and puts an arm around him. "They'll be okay." He turns to me for confirmation. "Won't they, Dar?"

"No." I shake my head. "They're … they're dead, Soda."

I say it outright. No use beating around the bush now… It won't bring them back. This is our reality, and we have to face it.

Still, the words don't sound real. I know they're true. I saw the bodies for Christ's sakes… but my thoughts break when I think of them. They're gone for good, but I still get the childish feeling they'll burst through the front door and tell us we were upset over nothing. Like the end to a nightmare, but this nightmare's only started. Tears erupt from down deep inside them, and I want nothing more than to join them, to let it all out, but I can't.

I back up a few feet and watch them.

I _want_ to cry, but fear takes over. For the first time in my life, I'm afraid of them. When the officer mentioned guardianship, I fervently told him it was me, but I ain't got a lick of confidence now.

In them, I see my future, my uncertain future, a future I'm terrified I'll fuck up.

Worst case scenario…. That's all my agreement with my parents was meant to be, but I don't take it back.

They need me.

I take a seat on the couch next to them. I mostly stare, but I ain't leaving no matter how painful their crying is to me. They cling to each other, and part of me feels I oughta hug them both, but I remain right where I am, unsure what to say or do.

Soda's passes out first, his face still reddened from all his crying, and Pony gets up to sit on the opposite side of me. "I'm sorry, Darry."

"What're you sorry for?"

His eyes dart away, and I realize my words came out harsher than I intended.

"Pony, you've got nothin' to be sorry for," I try to reassure him.

He shrugs. "I shouldn't'a been mad at you for bein' late… I didn't know." Tears form in his eyes again, and it just about kills me to see it.

"Listen, don't you feel bad about that. You got enough to be sad about without guilting yourself over somethin' silly…"

He rubs at his eyes and tries to compose himself. "We're gonna get split up, ain't we?"

"No," I tell him firmly. "Don't even think that for a second. I'm your guardian now."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Dad said so in their will, so get used to me bein' bossy."

"I already am." He rests his head against my shoulder, and though he's still distraught, he seems relieved by my words. "You've always been bossy."

I wrap an arm around him and sigh.

It's true, and I say a silent pray it makes things easier on us.

xxxx

My brothers are both asleep in Pony's room now.

I hear them toss and turn. They probably will all night, but I won't sleep at all. It'll be a miracle if I sleep period.

You'd think the hardest part'd be telling them, but I'm wrong. Right now's the hardest part. It's easy to keep myself together when I got an audience, especially one that stares at me like I've got all the answers and believes everything I say. It's no different than when we were younger. They'd believe anything I said 'cause I was older and cooler than them, but the words they hear from me now are a little different than the standard how to punt a football advice…

Every bone in me shakes when I think about them and this responsibility. My thoughts spin in circles and always come back to that...

The sadness that they'll never come back hasn't set in yet.

It doesn't hit until I walk past my parent's room an hour later and realize they'll never sleep in their bed again, they'll never walk in the same footsteps I just walked, never hear the tense breathing coming from Pony's room … Never any of these things.

It hits so hard I drop to the floor.

I plant my elbows on my knees and shove my face in my hands.

No tears.

If I let them fall, I won't be able to stop them. I'll wake my brothers and scare the crap out of them.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Exist.

Survive.

I bite down on my lip and center on the pain it causes, I count cracks in the wall, I listen to the static from the TV I don't bother to turn off… I do everything I can not to cry, but my mind flips right back to fear no matter how hard I attempt to disengage.

It's too much. I cry a few stray tears but stop them as soon as they start.

They'll be the last I cry in a long time.

* * *

AN: Thanks a million for the reviews on the first part of this, and I hope you enjoyed the continuation!

I'm torn… Part of me wants to leave it as a two-shot; part of me wants to make it a longer fic. Input would be greatly appreciated. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns.

AN: Adding onto this story again. Inspiration struck, and I thought it might be interesting to include a look at the funeral. Hope you enjoy—er, well, at least feel it's well written. The subject matter might be a little too depressing to be enjoyable… But anyways, here's an unexpected addition!

* * *

I told myself I wouldn't look at the bodies again.

As far as I'm concerned, identifying them is far enough confirmation, far enough closure to know they died, and whatever the embalmers did now, nothing can or will compare to that. Nothing takes the shock out of seeing a freshly dead body, and I'm afraid, deathly afraid, seeing any remaining scars beneath the layers makeup will take me right back to that moment.

But I know it's something I have to do. If I don't, I'll regret it. This is my last shot before they close the caskets, after all, and I don't need people thinking I'm a cold person. What kind of a person doesn't kneel down and say a prayer for their parents at a funeral? It's just what you do…

So before the funeral begins, before too many people get here, I take a deep breath and kneel before the caskets. Exhaling, I bow my head and fold my hands to pray, but the sight of the corpses stops me, and God becomes the last thing on my mind. Seeing the remaining scars stings, but something else stings worse. When I stare at these figures, the bodies ain't my parents; they're … imposter bodies or something. I don't know how to the hell to describe it, but it ain't them. Not my parents. Not my dead parents.

Dad looks too pristine, too clean, to be the man I always saw covered in dirt, but Dad never minded that. No, he always worked the rough jobs and loved the outdoors. Whenever we went hunting with him, Mom would make every single one of us take a shower first thing when we got home. Before she served us our dinners, before she even asked how the trip went, she'd whisk us off to the bathroom. It drove her crazy, and I remember how Dad used to tease her about that and try to sneak a dinner roll before he was clean.

I can still see the smirk on his lips, and that same smirk should be across his dead lips now instead of this permanent frown. Maybe they assume people wanna look serious when they die, but I can guarantee my father wouldn't. If I had the chance to ask him, he'd probably request something ridiculous, like dressing him in a costume or playing a Buddy Holly song instead of the standard Amazing Grace.

Goddamn it, he doesn't look right in that casket, but Mom looks worse.

She looks like a Barbie doll the way the mortician did her makeup. She never painted her face up like this; no, she kept it classy and simple, and seeing her like this is wrong. She wouldn't want this, I can say that for fact; just like Dad wouldn't wanna be frowing, she wouldn't wanna look like a supermodel, but I guess it ain't the funeral home's fault they look terrible. No, it's mine. They asked for a pictures to use as references, but I never gave 'em any.

It was hard enough to bring their outfits, hard enough to walk in their room and touch their clothes, clothes that had been last worn by dead people. It's eerie for Christ's sakes, and the garments, they seem like relics now, like untouchable artifacts, and I remember the way my hands shook and how heavy light fabric could feel between my fingers. I remember that so vividly, the feeling returns now, making my knees wobble and heart thud louder and louder.

Somehow I pulled myself together then, just like I will now, and threw two outfits together. I still ain't sure how, but after that, looking through photographs was asking too much.

Mom loved pictures; didn't like to be in them, but she adored taking them. It'd be a nightmare trying to find one with her in it that wasn't of us boys alone. And man, looking at the ones of me and my brothers would be the worst. Knowing _she_ took them, knowing how happy _she_ must've been at that moment to catch a small snippet of our lives, my breath hitches, trying to imagine, trying to comprehend. I'll never be able to look at those pictures again.

So I delivered the folded clothes in a paper sack and told them to do what they usually did with dead bodies. _Just do what you usually do_, I told them coldy, like my folks' bodies were no more important than any other dead body they'd embalmed. I think about this, and the anger sets over me. I have to raise my brothers now, but I couldn't be mature enough to see it through my parents looked every bit as good as they deserved? The bodies will look this way forever once we put them in the ground.

They will look like imposter versions.

I know that's what my aunt Betty's whispering about to everyone too. I saw her peer down the caskets and grimace, and though I blame myself, I wanna ask why she couldn't have showed up sooner. For Christ's sakes she's mom's sister; that entails some kind of funeral duty, don't it?

Every godforsaken relative who shows up oughta have a funeral duty. Didn't anybody pause to think it's screwed up to shove this kind of responsibility on me? The raising my brothers part is non-negotiable. That's happening, and I _want_ it that way. I ain't shipping 'em off to live these kooks, but they could've planned a goddamned funeral.

Grandpa Fred gets a hall pass for being terminally ill, burying our grandma not even a year ago, and now his only son, but the rest of them are blacklisted for a long ass time. They dare criticize me for forgetting to designate pallbearers and naming Two-Bit and Steve stand ins at the last minute. They cringe at how I forget to do lots of obligatory funeral things; at least Aunt Betty does. I don't know about the rest of them, they're mostly just quiet like they have no clue what to say to me.

And I'm okay with that. I don't know what to say to them either.

I swallow the lump in the back of my throat and stand up to find my seat. I know I'm supposed to greet everyone who comes, but the thought of doing that and risking hearing their stupid condolences pains me.

It pains me so much, I glue myself to a pew and refuse to move.

xxxx

It starts when they all file in. All my dad's coworkers, all my mom's coffee buddies, all their estranged relatives, all our friends... There ain't an empty seat in the entire church, and I can't cry when all the eyes are on me.

They all stare at me and my brothers with looks I can't read. Looks of pity? Looks of compassion? I don't know, but the stares burn, and it's all I can think about.

The pastor's tone rises and falls, but I hear nothing but the damn voice dragging on and on; the words are there, but they don't register. As far as I can comprehend, he could be speaking Spanish, and it'd make no difference to me. My thoughts are the loudest, blocking out any other input, except for the stares. I feel those the worst.

Pony and Soda bawl through the whole thing. Soda keeps an arm around Pony's shoulder, and seeing that makes me feel lousy all over again. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't offer comfort to anybody right now; all I can do is sit here with my arms folded.

Anything else would require too much energy, and I've slept a total of one hour in the past three days. My eyes are heavy from the exhaustion, but they remain propped wide open, locked on whatever object is in their gaze. Sometimes I stare so hard, I forget to blink, just like all the damn people stare at me.

I ask myself every seven seconds when it's going to be over, like a child asks their parents "are we there yet?" on long car trips. It is over yet? Is it over?

Eventually, I can say the service is, but then there's still the burial, and after that every holiday, milestone, birthday, death date—hell, everything—without them.

I can't tell myself it's over when it's only just begun.

* * *

Thanks to all the readers and reviews of parts one and two. I hope I disappoint with three. :) Let me know what you think!


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